


Love Potion

by polche



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Phone Sex, Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, forsyth and lukas are phone sex operators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polche/pseuds/polche
Summary: Python stumbles on a phone sex line and finds out he likes the sultry voice calling him "my lord" on the other side almost as much as he does his straight-laced best friend since forever. Little does he know they're one and the same.





	1. From The Corner Of His Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my friend and my "Bad Modern AU Headcanons". I can't believe after 10 years of not writing fanfic at all, this is what drags me back in....

Python found his seat and sat down, ignoring the almost shouted whispers of his friend.

“Are you _joking_! Do you know what time it is! Class started almost half an hour ago!”

Python just shrugged. “Traffic,” he said simply.

Beside him, his friend fumed, clearly wanting to lay into him for that pathetic excuse, but refraining because he didn't want to make a scene. Especially in front of their way, way-too-young-to-be-teaching, eyecandy professor, Python guessed.

He ruffled Forsyth's hair and gave his head a friendly push. “Don't sweat it, man. Long as my grades are fine, it's no problem, is it?”

Forsyth sighed. “It wouldn't kill you to put some effort in now and then,” he grumbled.

Python wouldn't in a million years admit it, but he actually took his studies somewhat seriously. He hadn't planned on going to university, but, as he always did, Forsyth had twisted his arm into applying for the history of politics course at Zofia U, and Python had, for reasons he hadn't even bothered to try to understand, been accepted. He never was much good at saying no to his good pal. It was the puppy-dog eyes, or the way his mouth curled when he pouted, or something.

He got his notes out and added to them while the professor lectured them on the details of coups. It was usually when the country was already doing shit, he paraphrased, is usually when two classes of people ain't getting along, like the nobility and peasantry, or the government and military, or whatever. He looked at the chicken scratches he put down without looking, and decided they looked legible enough that he might still understand them later.

Forsyth's were perfect, because of course they were. His letters were large and loopy, and Python could tell they were easy to read even from the corner of his eye. They'd probably make studying a lot easier, but he'd rather die than ask for help.

The professor's voice was clear and easy to pay attention to, but it still faded into the background as Python craned his head as little as he had to, to watch his friend. He listened so intently, his olive eyes gleaming as they flitted between the professor, the book and his notes. It looked exhausting just to pay attention so actively, and Python sighed.

The noise caused Forsyth to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“'S boring,” Python mumbled with another shrug, clicking his pen a few time and scrawling another few lazy notes. He hadn't been paying attention, so he just wrote a grocery list for dinner, but he hoped his writing was bad enough that his friend wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Forsyth gave one of those sighs his mother used to when she was disappointed with him but knew that she couldn't change what happened, and turned back to the professor.

He _got_ it: the professor – Clive, or whatever – was young and passionate, and knowledgeable, and a good speaker, and the way his light blond hair fell around his face, how his ass looked in those jeans and that _annoying_ birthmark near his lips. He completely understood why Forsyth gave him all his attention during class, but that didn't mean it riled him up any less.

He made a point of stretching and yawning, and thought to himself that he really needed to do something about his big stupid gay crush on his best friend.


	2. My Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He made his way back to his sofa, intending to work on his essay, but out of habit, he picked up his phone, and was faced with the awful chatline site again. He shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He does anyway.

He _tried_ to focus on his essay. Cross his heart and hope to die. Maybe not very hard, or for very long, but he tried. And yet here he was, lying lengthways on his sofa, browsing meme websites on the laptop on his stomach while typing “how to stop being ducking gay” into the search bar on his phone. He deleted the phrase and sighed. That wasn't what he wanted. He tried again. “how to convince your bff to have platonic makeouts” He deleted the word platonic, groaned, then the whole thing. “love potion”? He groaned louder and squeezed his eyes shut. He had to stop doing this to himself, it was stupid, and it was taking far more effort than he'd ever want to put into anything.

His phone falling onto his nose with a splat jerked him out of his self-flagellating musing. “Ow, fuck,” he mumbled. He rubbed the sore spot on the bridge of his nose where the phone had hit him, and reached over the side of the sofa to pick his phone off the ground.

Clearly, the contact with his skin must have pressed something, because he was now on a particularly gaudy webpage, black and neon red, words promising “the time of your life” with “ _real_ men and women at your beck and _call_ ”. He gave a light snort at the incredibly shitty pun and locked his phone, putting it on the coffee table. Enough distraction for one evening.

He returned to his computer, almost giving in to the temptation of scrolling through memes for another hour or two, before shaking his head and going through his umptillion tabs to find what the requirements for his essay were again. That's a birdwatching live stream. Those are instructions for how to make your own medieval bow. _Those_ are instructions on how to make a _modern_ bow – shit, what was his _deal_ with bows? He'd taken archery _once_ as an elective in PE because it meant he wouldn't have to _run_ . That was the same meme site, just a different tab. Ten different wiki pages, only a few of them having any tenuous relation to his essay anymore. _There_ were the instructions. “3000 words”. Great, that meant he only had about 2990 to go.

His stomach rumbled, and he realized he'd been lying in this position roughly since he'd returned from uni, which was – he checked his phone, even though the time was clearly written in the lower left of his computer screen – _five hours ago_? Shit, no wonder he was hungry.

He pushed his laptop off his stomach, not even pretending to be upset he had a reason to be distracted, and walked to the tiny little kitchen of his apartment. He checked the fridge, but of course, since he'd forgotten to go get those groceries he'd written down, all he had to make was half a head of lettuce and some eggs. He stared dead-eyed into his empty fridge for a minute, took out the egg carton and closed it again. Guess it'd be noodles again. He knew he was this kind of dumbass, which was why every time he went to the dollar store, he always stocked up on way more noodle packets than was probably healthy, but at least it kept the costs down. Spicy chicken sounded pretty good today, maybe the heat would help him focus? He didn't know if that made any sense, but he went with it anyway. While the water boiled, he fried two of the three eggs left in the carton. Having only one left sucked, because it just wasn't enough for anything good. He wished he had chickens, like at home, but, whatever. Having to get up and get the eggs and feed them had been a pain, too, so maybe he didn't.

His eggs started to smell burnt. “Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, and turned off the heat. He looked at his eggs, and while their underside was decidedly blacker than they had any business being, he wouldn't say they were a lost cause, and slid them into his noodles anyway.

“Love the crunch,” he mumbled to no one in particular, then mentally chided himself for spending too damn long online.

He ate his extravagant dinner. The eggs were definitely more crunchy than he'd like, but they made his stomach shut up, so his mission had been a success anyway.

He made his way back to his sofa, intending to work on his essay, but out of habit, he picked up his phone, and was faced with the awful chatline site again. He shouldn't. But then he saved all that money by not getting groceries _anyway_ and it _was_ supposed to be better if you didn't do it by yourself right? He _should_ be working on his essay. He knows he's shit with deadlines and it would be _really_ embarrassing to have to get Forsyth to help him again.

“Please press 1 for a female operator, 2 for a male operator, or 3 for a random operator,” a robotic female voice sounded from his phone.

Sometimes he hated how impulsive he was. Then again, he was in this deep already anyway, might as well see how deep the fucking rabbit hole goes. His finger hovered over the numbers for a brief moment before landing squarely on the 2.

“Your choice has been confirmed and an operator will be with you shortly. Thank you for your patience,” the robot told him.

The hold music was sleazy but inoffensive, and he listened to it for about three seconds before he stood up from the sofa and headed to his bed. There was something just not right about jacking off where he ate and worked.

The line crackled. “Hey, good looking!” The voice on the other end of the line sounded more excited than sultry, and also Python had some difficulty believing him, even if he did sound like he meant it.

Whatever, this wasn’t the time for self-pity. Not like that anyway. He ran a hand through his hair. That said, he didn’t have a clue how this was supposed to play out. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He should have had a glass of water before he impulsively decided to do this.

“Uh.” An excellent start. “I… This is my first time?” he admitted in a way smaller voice than he intended.

“Ohh, well, don’t worry!” the voice on the other side said, his voice lowering halfway through his words, as if he just remembered the kind of phone line he was doing. “I’m here _all_ for you. You just tell me what you want, and I’ll walk you through it, nice and slow.”

He had to admit, even through his crappy phone speakers, the other guy had a nice voice. Warm and expressive, and he sounded like he was smiling when he talked. Kind of like their professor. Except that was totally not who he wanted to think about at time like this. But what _did_ he want?

“Uh… I’m… not fussed?” He planted his face in his hand. “I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before… Sorry.”

“No, please, don’t apologize,” the voice on the other side said, “Let me make a suggestion, my lord.”

Python narrowed his eyes. “...Go ahead,” he said skeptically.

“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” the voice murmured into his ear.

“...Yeah,” Python agreed, with just a little too much feeling.

“Of course. Let me help you with that. I undo the top button of your shirt and slide it off your shoulders, and gently massage them.”

Python hummed. He still wasn’t entirely sure about this, but it was a nice voice buzzing in his ear, and he settled against the wall.

“I rub your shoulders, rolling the muscles with my palms. You feel tense. You must have had to put up with a lot. Is there anywhere you want me to pay special attention to, my lord?”

Again with the my lord. “...The base of my neck, please.” He’d been craning his head up to see his laptop screen since he came home, after all, and he had bad posture to begin with.

“My hands move closer together, my thumbs rubbing circles around the base of your neck. You _are_ tense, I can feel it.” The other guy’s soft, low voice did actually relax him a little bit, though it also sent a shiver down his spine, with how close he sounded. “Through my massage, the muscles in your neck start to loosen up, and my thumbs make larger and larger circles on your skin, dipping under the fabric of your shirt when they go down.”

“You can go lower,” Python mumbled. Whatever this guy was doing, he wasn’t sure if it was _hot_ exactly, but it sure did work.

“Thank you, my lord,” the voice on the other side breathed. That sent another shiver down Python’s spine. “I pull your shirt further down off your shoulders, and trace the line of your shoulderblades with my fingers.” And another. “I run my hands over your back, kneading your tense, _hard_ muscles.” Something about the way he said it made Python’s breath catch.

“Fuck the shirt,” he was surprised to hear himself growl. “Take it off.”

“Yes, my lord.” Python started to get down with this my lord crap. Like he was the most important person in the world. “I get in front of you, and slowly undo one button, and then another, and another, until they’re all undone, and slip the shirt off your shoulders.”

Python hummed again, lower this time. He did not want this guy to stop talking.

“My lord,” the voice breathed again. “Your nipples.”

“Hm?” He switched his phone to his left hand and slipped his other hand under his shirt and touched himself. “They’re hard alright,” he mumbled.

“May I touch them?”

“Please.”

“I lightly run my fingers over your nipples,” the voice said. Python mimicked the action. “They _are_ ,” the voice breathed with such surprised conviction Python momentarily forgot they were on the phone. “ _So are mine_ ,” the voice whispered like a confession.

“I put my hands under your shirt to feel,” Python growled. He was into this.

“My lord,” the voice gasped.

Heat spread under Python’s skin and he was sure in a moment he was going to have to actually take off his shirt. “Say that again.”

“My lord,” the voice repeated, sounding just as breathless as the first time.

“Take off your shirt.”

“I unbutton my shirt and slip it off.”

“What do you want?”

“My lord?” the voice breathed again, and Python thought he was gonna lose it.

“Do you want me?” he growled.

“My lord, I _need_ you.”

Python fumbled one-handed with the button on his jeans. “Fuck,” he moaned, not sure whether it was because taking off your pants with one hand was a pain in the ass or because he’d gotten to the point where he _had_ to. “ _Take me_.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” the voice breathed. “I undo your belt, and slide down your trousers.”

“Me too,” Python mumbled on autopilot, his hand snaking its way into his boxers.

“I slide my hands down your sides, to your hips.” Python shivered again. This guy was magic, he swore. Making him feel this hot and bothered, like he actually had his hands on him, with just his voice. “I trace the line of your hips to your underwear.”

“Take it off,” Python commanded, his voice somewhere between a growl and a moan, as he did so himself.

“Yes, my lord.”

Python moaned. That was definitely a moan.

“I pull down your underwear as well, and free your cock.”

_How the hell did he make that sound so hot?_ “It needs it,” Python mumbled.

“Are you hard?”

Python grunted to confirm. His hand was around the shaft, rubbing slowly.

“I wrap my hands around your erection, and slide them up and down.”

Python hummed, though it came out as more of a moan. He was already there.

“And I press my mouth down onto your stomach. It’s hot and wet.”

Python moaned again. “Same,” he mumbled.

“I make my way down your stomach, kissing and licking every part, still pumping your hard cock.”

The way the hard “K” sounds left his phone speaker sent another wave of heat through him, and suddenly the current friction wasn’t enough. His hand sped up, and in between strokes, he breathed hard.

“Does it feel good?”

Python couldn’t reply with anything other than a moan.

“I move my mouth further down, kissing the shaft of your cock, running my tongue along it.”

Python moaned again, the image of Forsyth putting his mouth on him so vivid in his mind, he was amazed he didn’t come right then and there.

“I take your head in my mouth and explore it with my tongue.”

Python couldn’t respond. His mind was fully occupied, and all that came out of his mouth was ragged, heavy breathing and the occasional moan.

“You taste good,” the voice moans back.

That was it. Python was done. All of the excitement, all of the heat, all of the build up burst out of his cock and all over his hand, and jeans, and boxers, as a loud moan escaped his throat.

“Holy shit,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Did you come?” the voice on the other side asked gently.

“...Yeah,” Python mumbled, slowly remembering that was all on the phone. He was slumped against the wall, breathing ragged, suddenly exhausted. “That was.. Holy shit,” he mumbled. “You’re _good_...”

“Oh!” the voice on the other side sounded surprised. “Oh, gosh, thank you.”

Python thought it was a little weird to get embarrassed about _that_ , but then whatever, he wasn’t the one getting paid to pretend-fuck strangers.

He was the one _paying_ them.

“Um. Thanks. For… all that,” he mumbled, suddenly hyper-aware of how pathetic he felt.

“No problem. Thank _you_!”

“Okay. Yeah. Um. I’m gonna hang up now.”

“Bye!”

He ended the call and tossed his phone beside him on his bed. He placed his hand on his face and squeezed in embarrassment over what he had _actually_ just done, before he remembered that that was the hand he'd _done_ it with, and he's just rubbed his spunk over his own face. He hadn't thought he could get any hotter, and yet here he was. Every time he thought he hit rock bottom, he found a way to dig deeper. With a long, involved groan, he peeled himself off the bed, made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up, and dragged himself to the shower, silently praying to whatever divine entity would listen that nobody would ever find out.

He thought about taking a cold shower, because he felt like somehow, he was supposed to do that in this kind of situation, but he nearly screamed when the freezing water actually blasted him, and in his frantic attempt to correct this stupid, dumb, idiot decision his stupid, dumb, idiot brain had made, he turned the hot tap too much, and within seconds he felt like he was being pelted with fire.

He fled the shower, pawing at the taps from a safe distance until the water temperature was more manageable. This was why he never put any effort into things: He'd just fuck them up anyway.

He spent his time in the shower gently tapping his forehead against the wall, only giving himself a good, rough scrub when his skin had pruned and he was starting to get a headache, and then immediately turned the shower off.

His clothes lay abandoned in a pile on the bathroom floor, but he did not want to think about dealing with them, so he just left. He put on a fresh pair of boxers and sat back down on the sofa. Even his _essay_ would be a good distraction from what an embarrassment he'd been that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey title drop.
> 
> So I'm ace as hell and I basically pulled all of that out of my ass, so I hope it's still satisfactory.
> 
> Python is a pile of garbage loosely packed in human skin and I love him.


	3. What On Earth Are You Saying?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked at his notes, how the further down the page he went, the fewer keywords he saw and the more crappy doodles of hissing snakes. “ASMR” was also written halfway down the page, and one of the snake doodles’ tongue went all the way off the page. That must have been when he officially fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another quick uni chapter and Python remains the most relatable student ever.

He showed up late again the next day.

“Let me guess, traffic?” Forsyth asked with a huff.

“Overslept,” Python answered honestly.

Forsyth looked at him, his expression starting out flat and drawn, but faded to a curious concern as he took in how much like shit Python figured he must look. He hadn't taken the time to style his hair (any more than he usually did), so he hadn't been able to take a look in the mirror, but he was sure his eyes were dark ringed, he was paler than usual, and his expression might actually be more “tired” than “bored” today.

“You're not getting sick, are you?” Forsyth asked, starting out at full volume before he realized he was in a lecture and dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “I keep telling you, you should eat better. Have you even had any fruit this week?”

“Yes, mother,” Python groaned. He hadn't. “I overslept 'cause I was writing my _essay_ , like a good boy.”

It was shit, he didn't know what he was talking about, and his evidence was all over the place, but he'd farted out a good 1500 words that could possibly make for a first draft. And then he realized it was 6 am, and he had an early afternoon lecture. This lecture.

Forsyth looked slightly taken aback. “Well. That's... good. But, still, you should take better care of yourself.”

Python hummed. “Whatever, dude, just pay attention. Golden boy's talking.”

Forsyth snapped his head back to the professor. Clive had put up some graphs on the relations between different groups of people within a political system, and was somewhere halfway through explaining them. Forsyth's pen raced over his ring binder, copying the graphs and noting down keywords, and Python thought it was really fucking cute how the tip of his tongue peeked out from between his lips.

The professor droned on, and Python _tried_ to pay attention, for a little bit. He let his hand make notes and scribbles, hoping he’d absorb at least some of the material by osmosis, as his mind wandered. Even if none of his words made their way past his eardrums, Python enjoyed the sound of Clive’s voice. It made him feel like he could, very comfortably, fall asleep. Was this that ASMR stuff people talked about on the internet? After having had a less than optimal amount of sleep, it wasn’t long before Forsyth nudged him awake. He hadn’t even noticed he’d dozed off.

“You were snoring,” he said, clearly unimpressed. He sighed. “At least you weren’t very loud. Come on, Python, _try_ to focus.”

Python groaned in response. “Fine, twist my arm...”

He looked at his notes, how the further down the page he went, the fewer keywords he saw and the more crappy doodles of hissing snakes. “ASMR” was also written halfway down the page, and one of the snake doodles’ tongue went all the way off the page. That must have been when he officially fell asleep.

Clive had started explaining something else and his notes weren’t any help on what he missed, so Python decided to give up and just ask Forsyth for his notes again later. He took his phone and browsed the internet to keep him awake through the lecture, Clive’s voice a pleasant buzzing in the back of his mind. He’d be good at that phone shit. Or would he? His voice made Python feel like he _should_ be paying attention, like he was saying something important, and that was a little too much pressure.

“You think golden boy ever roleplays with his wife?” he mused absentmindedly.

Forsyth slammed his hands on the desk in front of him as he jumped to his feet. “ _Python, what on earth are you saying?_ ” he hissed, interrupting Clive mid-sentence.

All the noise in the room stopped, and Python sank lower in his seat because most of his classmates were suddenly staring at him. Mostly at Forsyth, actually, but plenty were no doubt wondering what scandalous taboo had passed his lips for his friend to react like that. Hushed whispers filled the room.

“ _Forsyth_...” Python grumbled. This was not the way he wanted to stand out. He didn’t want to stand out at all.

“Forsyth, was it?” Clive said from beside his whiteboard. “Is everything alright? If you need some help sorting things out with your friend, I can talk with you, but after class, please. I’d like to be able to focus on teaching.”

“No, sir, we’re all good, thanks!” Forsyth all but shouted, and sat down with as much force and as little grace as he had stood up.

Python chuckled. Whatever Forsyth did, he did all the way. Even unintentionally. It was a quality he admired, even if not one he was particularly eager to take on himself.

“...He knows you by name,” he pointed out, side-eyeing his friend with a crooked grin. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, even out of the entire lecture hall, because Clive was frustratingly attentive and whenever he asked for audience participation, Forsyth was always one of the more eager students to volunteer. That didn’t mean he realized he was memorable, though.

Forsyth just huffed and stared a hole into his notes as his entire face flushed. Python didn’t know if Forsyth was happy or embarrassed, though most likely a combination of both, but he usually bounced back quickly from bad moods, and if Python had to be honest (at gunpoint, for example), both reactions made him feel good anyway.

Was it a dick move to be jealous about your crush’s own really, blatantly obvious crush? He didn’t know, but since Clive was married and, presumably, straight anyway, at least it wasn't like anything was actually going to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I got Python calling Clive "golden boy" from somewhere, because it seems too good for me to have come up with on my own; it's just so perfect.
> 
> It's not gonna come up in this fic, but yes, Clive and Mathilda absolutely do sexy roleplays and get super into it. Their supports in the game are basically foreplay already and that's on an actual literal battlefield.


	4. Blunt And Casual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, Python. Put some more effort in,” Forsyth chided from the kitchen. He was portioning the food onto three plates. “Lukas is nice. He’s been helping me a lot this year.”
> 
> Python sighed. Now he had to. “Yeah, you said,” he mumbled. “He got you that job, right? What did you say it was?”
> 
> “Customer service,” Forsyth said, at the same time Lukas said, “Call center.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya boy Luke finally shows up! And Python instantly dislikes him.

When they left the lecture hall later on, Python just followed his friend’s shoes, unable to put in the effort for anything more. It was their only lecture of the day, and Python was thrilled to be able to go home and curl up for a nap on the sofa, but when they reached their parting destination and Python raised his arm to give him a lazy wave, Forsyth grabbed his wrist and pulled him along _his_ way home.

“Dude, what?”

“I told you to take better care of yourself, but I know if I leave you alone you’d just take a nap, wake up late, have some ramen and go back to bed,” Forsyth said. Python couldn’t deny he got it in one. “So I’m going to take you to my place, give you some _actual_ food, and keep you awake until you can sleep at a _normal_ time.”

Python whistled. “How forward of you.”

Forsyth huffed and gave Python a shove, light enough not to topple him even with as little effort as he was putting in to stay upright. Python shoved back and chuckled, and a short chuckle from Forsyth turned into a throaty laugh, and soon the two of them were holding on to each other to stop from buckling.

“Well I can’t leave you hanging,” Python said when he got his breath back. “If you want me so bad, I _guess_ I can spend some time at yours.”

Forsyth put his arm around Python’s shoulder. “I knew you’d want to come,” he said with a smile as he let go to lead the way.

 

* * *

 

Python dropped himself on the sofa the moment he could.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes!” Forsyth said as he put on a pink plastic apron with some sort of cartoon rabbit on it.

He couldn’t help himself. “ _What_ are you wearing? Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”

Forsyth looked down. “Oh, it’s Lukas’s.” The mysterious housemate. “He said I could use it.”

Because he’d gone looking for accommodation early, Forsyth had managed to snatch a pretty nice place. Sure he’d had to share, but at least he had his own bedroom, and it wasn’t simultaneously his living room as well, like in Python’s studio apartment. Then again, Python couldn’t complain, because rent was manageable, and at least he didn’t have to deal with weirdos using his bathroom. Not that anyone in their right mind would _want_ to, according to Forsyth, but the point still stood.

Python picked up a flyer off the table. He saw large gothic text and pictures of people in robes and groaned. “Forsyth...” As he thought, the box at the bottom that said “volunteers required” had the phone number circled. “Hey, you know you don’t get paid for that shit, right?”

Forsyth looked back at him from the kitchen, confusion on his face until he saw the flyer. “Yes, Python, I’m aware of what the word volunteer means,” he said as he shook his head. “But come on, it means I can be there without having _to_ pay.”

“I almost forgot what a giant nerd you were.”

He did a good job at hiding it in public, but his room was full of medieval paraphernalia, and Python knew he had a replica breastplate in his mother’s attic, that he had been genuinely heartbroken to leave behind. If it wasn’t borderline illegal, he’d probably have a collection of weaponry as well. As it was, Forsyth just had a lot of books.

“You called yet?”

“Yes, I should be getting a call back for an interview next week.”

Python hummed and pocketed the flyer. What kind of friend would he be if he didn’t at least go support his best mate, after all? Forsyth chuckled from the kitchen, but returned to chopping vegetables when Python glared at him.

Python turned the TV on to keep from falling asleep. The history channel hummed to life, an older man’s voice mid-sentence talking about the country’s most impressive civil war and the instruments of death used for it.

“- parapets, from behind which ballisticians and archers could with relative safety defend from attacking forces...”

The screen showed an artist’s rendition of the conflict, overlaid on footage of the site in modern times. Sweaty, dirt-stained men, bowstrings pulled taut with bulging muscles; a rain of arrows bearing down on a sea of shields. Blood and suffering, all over a minor difference of ideology. Python thought it was pathetic, but Forsyth ate that stuff up. Then again, those archers did look pretty cool. He wondered if Forsyth would give him the same looks of adoration and interest if he looked like one of those soldiers. Right, that was why he was looking up bows.

The gentle thuds of small objects being dropped in sizzling oil and setting it to work, and the resulting smell woke Python from his gay reverie. “‘Tcha making?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the cooking noises.

“Nothing big,” Forsyth said. “Just some beef with rice and stir-fried vegetables.” As if that wasn’t something that’d take Python three weeks to make.

“Smells good to me. Wouldn’t say no if you wanted to be my personal chef.”

“But then you wouldn’t learn to take care of yourself, and then where would we be?” Forsyth said with a big sigh as he placed the beef strips into a pan and the smell filled the room.

A moan escaped Python’s lips. “Just give it to me now,” he pleaded over his growling stomach. He’d forgotten he hadn’t eaten anything yet all day, and precious little the days before, and the way the savory-sweet and smoky cooking beef mixed with the softer scents of carrots, peas, corn, broccoli and boiled rice smelled _so good_. Only Forsyth managed to make Python love greens.

“You’ll have to wait until it’s done,” Forsyth said sternly, unperturbed. Figures a double entendre would fly right over his head.

Python pouted, even though Forsyth was still faced away, focused wholly on the food. Maybe it was better that way.

The door opened.

“I’m back.” A redhead stepped through the door, backpack slung over one shoulder with a relaxed smile on his lips. The housemate. “Oh, that smells good.”

“Lukas, welcome back,” Forsyth said warmly. “I made dinner for my friend, Python. I don’t think you’ve met? You’re free to join us, if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Lukas said with no change in expression. Python didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

Lukas put his bag away in his room and sat down on the sofa, next to Python, who scooted up slightly, not just to give him some more space, but also so Lukas wouldn’t get the idea that he was entirely comfortable with this.

“Ah, the Holy Tower Siege,” Lukas mused, clearly knowing more about what was on TV than Python. “An impressive battle, indeed. Those brave men, fighting their hardest to protect their sacred site from desecration… You’re doing the same course, aren’t you?”

Python hummed. He had no interest in pursuing a conversation with this guy, and his slow, monotone voice made him want to fall asleep.

“It’s good to learn about one’s history, so one can avoid making the same mistakes.” Lukas nodded to himself. “I’m a year above. I’m sure we have plenty in common, so if you see me at uni, don’t hesitate to say hi.”

As if. Python hummed again.

“Forsyth’s told me a lot about you.”

He would have. “Not _all_ bad, I hope,” Python retorted, slightly more sour than he meant to.

Lukas chuckled. “Not at all. It’s clear you’re very good friends.”

Python hummed. Friends. He was firmly stuck in the friend zone. It was a good zone, way better than the I-don’t-care-for-you-at-all zone that Lukas was currently stuck in with him, but it did suck he couldn’t see it become anything more than that. Forsyth’s crushes were glaringly obvious, so there was no way he returned Python’s feelings, which he _must_ have picked up on by now, right?

“Come on, Python. Put some more effort in,” Forsyth chided from the kitchen. He was portioning the food onto three plates. “Lukas is nice. He’s been helping me a lot this year.”

Python sighed. Now he _had_ to. “Yeah, you said,” he mumbled. “He got you that job, right? What did you say it was?”

“Customer service,” Forsyth said, at the same time Lukas said, “Call center.”

Python hummed. “Ah, yeah, that makes sense. You’re a bit of a doormat, aren’t you?” he joked. “And you can do that from home?”

Forsyth nodded.

“It’s very convenient,” Lukas said. “I thought he might appreciate the flexibility.”

“Shit, maybe you could hook _me_ up,” Python mumbled. He glanced at Lukas for a reaction from the corner of his eye, sighing when there was none. “Nah, I’d stink, so you’d better not,” he said with a lazy chuckle.

Instead of laughing along, Lukas looked him over, as if he were inspecting Python’s soul. “I don’t know about that,” he said thoughtfully.

“It was a joke, dude. Don’t sweat it. I’m good.” He didn’t want to owe this guy, he didn’t want to deal with customers, and if he became Forsyth’s coworker, the guy would constantly chide him for not putting enough effort in, like he did with uni already. No thanks. His wood-whittling webshop did well enough for now that he didn’t need to worry so much, anyway.

“Alright, no problem,” Lukas said with the same meaningless smile that he seemed to have plastered on his face by default.

Forsyth put their plates down on the coffee table in front of them, and sat down in between Python and Lukas, giving Python the look that meant “I’ll deal with it, but _try_ not to make things worse” that he usually did when Python was being rude.

The sofa was, ostensibly, made for three people, but it had clearly stood in the apartment for longer than just the time Forsyth lived there, and the cushions on the side Python sat on dipped a bit towards the middle, causing him to lean just a little against his best friend, Forsyth’s thigh warm against his and their shoulders close enough to brush every time one of them moved. He wasn’t going to complain, even if it was a bit cramped.

Python put the plate in front of him on his lap and put a big scoop of rice on his fork. The bite was soft and warm, just short of melting on his tongue, but not mushy and overcooked, the beef gravy adding another flavor dimension that made his palate dance. “Shit, Forse, this is some good shit,” he said in between chews, looking at him slightly incredulous. It was a while since he last had anything his friend prepared, but he didn’t remember his cooking being this good. He hadn’t even tasted the beef yet.

Forsyth’s face twitched, mouth and brows rapidly switching between disgust and pride, before settling on mildly disappointed. “...Please swallow before you talk.” He sighed. “Well, that’s what happens when you actually cook for yourself.”

“Damn, roast me, would you,” Python mumbled after having made sure his mouth was empty.

On the Forsyth’s other side, Lukas raised his hand to his mouth as he chuckled.

Python had half a mind to just put an entire strip of beef in his mouth and bite off what he couldn’t fit in, but decided he should probably try not to make the worst first impression ever for Forsyth’s sake, and cut his beef instead. It was moist, tender, and full of flavor. He could eat this for a year and not get bored.

“...Of course, it’d be remiss of me not to mention Lukas’s contribution. He’s helped me a lot.”

“The effort is all yours, my friend. I’ve only shared some tips and tricks I’ve picked up along the way,” Lukas said.

Python was getting exhausted of the polite, humble and perfect shtick. It had to be a shtick, right? Just putting on a better face for your housemate’s pal? No one actually _lived_ like this, right? That was a terrifying and depressing thought.

He whistled and gave the two housemates a sly look, gauging their reactions. “What’s this? Do I hear implications of a _hot_ kitchen romance?” And indeed, Forsyth’s eyebrows achieved liftoff. It was almost enough to cause him to burst into laughter already, but he still had some puns in the oven. “Is there something _saucy_ going on? Are you using more _spice_ than just pepper?”

“Python!” Forsyth sputtered. “There is _nothing_ going on, and I will not stand for these baseless accusations!”

“Am I,” he had to work harder to keep from laughing, “ _grilling_ you too much? ‘Cause I can still turn up the _heat_.” Except he couldn’t, because he finally lost his composure and doubled over, cackling. “I want -” he wheezed, “- all the _juicy_ details!”

Forsyth shoved him. “You are incorrigible!” Python could hear him struggle against the involuntary upturn of the corners of his mouth. It was good to know both of them enjoyed the dinnertime banter equally as much.

“You love it.”

Softly, under his own hyena laughs, Python could hear Lukas chuckle as well. It was the same gentle, mild chuckle that made Python wonder if Lukas was just containing any bigger emotions, or if he genuinely didn’t have them. But at least the guy had something of a sense of humor.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but there are no juicy details,” Lukas said after he’d finished laughing.

“It’s a _joke_ ,” Python said, exasperated. “You’re both way too serious! Maybe if there _was_ , you two’d be a bit more laid back...”

Forsyth’s leg (and, Python assumed, the rest of him) tensed, though whether that was just because Python had, again, said something highly inappropriate, or because there was actually something there, Python didn’t know.

“Who knows,” Lukas said with another chuckle. “However, I assure you I have no romantic or sexual inclinations towards Forsyth.”

“Yikes. You don’t mince words, do you?” Python thought it was kind of harsh, even if realistically it would probably be dumb to think that he _would_ be into Forsyth, not to mention that Forsyth himself didn’t give off much hints that he might be into the guy either, and had, in fact, relaxed.

“I don’t see the point. I value our platonic relationship as friends, housemates and coworkers no less just because I’m not attracted to him.”

“...I’m right here, guys,” Forsyth said with a sigh, squeezing himself out from between Python and Lukas to take everyone’s empty plates to the kitchen. His body language was relaxed, despite the admonition, so Python figured he hadn’t actually caused any offense, and that he wasn’t bummed about Lukas’s blunt and casual rejection. Python didn’t like the idea of Forsyth dating anyone, but he liked the idea of his best friend heartbroken and distressed even less.

Lukas stood up as well and followed Forsyth to the kitchen. “Allow me,” he said as he took the apron and rolled up his sleeves. “It’s only fair.” How disgustingly domestic.

Forsyth conceded and returned to sit with Python, who gave a loud yawn and stretched himself over his friend. Partly to quiet the voice in his head that screamed he should claim him before it’s too late, partly because now that he’d had an actual meal, his systems were shutting down and it was even harder to stay awake than it had been.

“Good night,” he mumbled. His eyes fell shut, and he relished in the warmth of Forsyth’s toned legs against his chest. Did he go to the gym, or was that just the exercise of his normal, all-out life?

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Forsyth dragged him upright and shook him.

Python groaned.

“It’s too early to sleep yet, Python. You’re never going to get into a healthy routine like this.” Forsyth huffed. “We’re going to go over what you missed today first.”

Python groaned louder, but straightened himself to his normal banana shape, one of his shoulders giving a loud pop as he stretched it, and shook his head to get the sleep out.

“Alright, alright, get your notes, then. Mine are garbage.”

Forsyth gave a big smile that almost made the torture of being awake worth it, and zipped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm even worse at food porn than regular porn....


	5. Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite actually putting effort in, he couldn’t shake the thought of that voice from the chatline out of his mind. It happened often enough, and usually the only thing that got him through whatever he was supposed to be doing, was the thought of indulging when he was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're finally reading these as I write them, so the next chapters should come at a slower pace.
> 
> This is a shorter one again, but rest assured, Python still manages to embarrass himself plenty.

Python had all weekend to work on his essay, and with the help of Forsyth and his notes, even some ways to improve his argument, but every time he opened the document, it was like a thick fog filled his brain, and he couldn’t get any words to pass through. He’d written down the beginning of the same sentence five times, and every time it didn’t work and he deleted it, to the point where he now set aside his laptop and growled to himself.

Maybe a quick break would help, and he could get back to his stupid essay with a clearer mind. He boiled some water for coffee, then got his whittling supplies to see if he couldn’t finish some orders. People wanted ducks a lot all of a sudden, and Python couldn’t be happier. Ducks were easy. Smooth lines, a simple shape, and he was getting lots of practice in. After having done so many over the past weeks, he was faster than ever. He had three rough duck-shapes staring at him from atop the coffee table, the tub by his feet full of wood shaving, before he realized he never actually made that coffee.

He boiled his water again. He figured he’d stay around the counter this time, so he wouldn’t have to do this a third time (again), but he browsed the internet on his phone while he waited, because standing around idly made him antsy, even if he didn’t want to be doing anything _important_ , either.

He managed to pay attention to his water boiler despite finding out that it’s not ASMR, Professor Clive just has a nice voice, and made himself some coffee. Then his train of thought went from “nice voice” straight to hell, and before he knew it, he was looking at his call history, the neon-red-on-black burned in his mind despite every number being the same boring black on white.

He glanced at his ducks. They needed detailing, or friends. He should be making money, not spending it. Even on the guy who could make him shiver with just two words. He took a sip from his coffee and burned his tongue. He swore at himself, but at least it gave him the clarity of mind not to get sucked into another daydream, and he shoved his phone back into his pocket and continued his whittling. He decided to focus on one of the more expensive duck requests, and one that actually required some thought and expertise: a trio; one with a wizard hat and umbrella, that needed to look “avant garde high fashion”, whatever that meant; one with sideburns, and muscles all over, and one small one with a beard, decorated with floral patterns, and one leg that looked like a growing branch. He figured it must be some series he didn’t follow, so he didn’t bother thinking about it too much. Strange they’d be ducks, though.

Despite actually putting effort in, he couldn’t shake the thought of that voice from the chatline out of his mind. It happened often enough, and usually the only thing that got him through whatever he was _supposed_ to be doing, was the thought of indulging when he was done.

So he finished his coffee, and eventually the rough shapes of the three weird ducks, before he took another break. He took a deep breath as he grabbed his phone, steeled himself, paced his apartment, sat down on his bed, steeled himself again, and _finally_ dialed the number.

“Hi, you got Lucky, how can I be of service,” purred the voice on the other side. Except it was the wrong voice. _This_ voice was soft and sticky like honey. The voice he’d been hoping for bristled like static electricity.

“Oh,” he heard himself say, and he wanted to sink into the ground. He had just utterly destroyed the person on the other side, and he hadn’t even said a _word_. He shook his head and tried to fix things. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just… I was expecting someone else.”

“You’re looking for someone in particular? There’s an operator list on the site,” the voice explained pleasantly, as if Python hadn’t just savagely rejected him. Maybe he _had_ to be that nice; it was still a job, after all.

Python went to his laptop in a daze, and found the operator list. “Oh yeah,” he mumbled. Unfortunately, looking through the list didn’t help. “Oh… I never got his name...” The site had pictures of impossibly handsome men, along with some likes and dislikes, but nothing stood out.

“Oh, dear, that’s a shame… I can help with a lot of things, but I’m not sure that’s one,” the voice murmured, warm and eager in a way Python would _totally_ be down with, if he wasn’t fixated on his disappointment. “I _can_ give it a try. Please, tell me anything that stood out.”

Python’s foot bounced of its own accord as he thought. What could he say that wasn’t waxing lyrically about how gay that husky voice made him feel? “Uh, he… gave me a massage?” Because _that_ narrowed it down. Trying to remember, to describe what made the guy special was leading him down a road that was most likely a faux pas in the industry. “...He called me ‘my lord’ a lot?” he mumbled, his face flushed and hot. He felt like his mind was leaving him again.

Quiet, gentle chuckling from the other side brought him back to reality. “I’m not familiar with all my coworkers, but I know _him_. You’re looking for ‘Honey’,” the voice said warmly. “He’s a wonderful guy; I’m not surprised he’s managed to enamor you.”

“Whoa, dude, it’s not like that!” Python stammered.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, though. Many of us have regulars. I imagine it’s similar to a relationship: A feeling of familiarity, understanding the other and knowing what he wants-” The stranger’s soft, rational words were likely intended to calm him down, but the idea of effectively being in a _relationship_ with someone he was paying to whisper sweet nothings in his ear made Python recoil.

“Alright, alright, whatever! Thanks!” He stabbed the “end call” button with his finger and lay down on the sofa. He stared blankly into the middle distance in front of him, his mind empty and his guts swirling with shame and guilt.

 

* * *

 

Four hours, a miserable pity-jerk, three cups of coffee and a noodle packet (with one egg because he _still_ hadn’t gone to get groceries) later, Python had managed to put the most awkward phone call he ever made out of his mind, and held an utterly gorgeous carved duck in his hand, gleaming with both success and a coat of varnish. He’d painstakingly detailed every feather with a small file, and its tail flicked up so delicately it looked as though it would bounce when touched, despite still being made from wood. Its eyes stared knowingly in no particular direction.

He snapped a picture and put it online, to show what he was working on, and what he was capable of, with the five less finished ducks in the background. He played around with the filters, amusing himself with the dramatic flash that happened when he tapped one of the tilt shift options, though he ultimately decided to post it unaltered, since he wasn’t the kind of person who knew anything about aesthetics or what looked good.

Ducks were starting to bore him to tears.

He checked his laptop to see if his tabs from the other day were still intact. They were, and he skimmed over the ones on how to make bows again, figuring that if he was gonna drag himself to a ren fair to dork out, he may as well go all out. Then he remembered that he didn’t have any wood to make anything _with_. Well, he did, but nothing that was as tall and flexible as a bow would have to be. He groaned. His motivation to do anything instantly plummeted, and he let himself fall on the sofa with a thud.

He sighed deep, and if he had the energy he’d be pissed off he had to resort to this, but regardless, he sent Forsyth a text:

**Me:**  
Goes bro take me shoppin  
Need wood  
Maybe food

He stared up at the ceiling and the curious pattern of mold that spread from one of the corners, until his phone buzzed with a reply.

**Fork:**  
_You still haven’t gone grocery shopping? Python, you are a grown man! Take care of yourself already!_

Apparently, Python had been zoning out for twenty minutes. Forsyth usually responded quicker than that.

**Me:**  
Shot dude u takin a crap

**Fork:**  
_Yes, I will accompany you tomorrow, if only because I know that’s the only way you’ll buy yourself anything healthy._

**Me:**  
Slow mf

Forsyth’s text interrupted his. Apparently he hadn’t finished typing yet. He always was slower than Python, since he insisted on full sentences and proper spelling. Python thought it was stupid, because people understood what he meant even with the awful autocorrects and shorthands, and it didn’t take three million years.

**Fork:**  
_Python, I was working. And don’t be crass._

That explained it. Forsyth couldn’t do two things at once, after all. Python sent him a poo emoji.

**Me:**  
Pick u up @ 11?

**Fork:**  
_Yes, that sounds good. I’ve put it in my schedule. Please actually show up at 11. Don’t wake up at 10:30 and wing it. If you get up at a normal time, you’ll be able to get ready at a calm pace._

Python rolled his eyes. He’d read and heard this lecture so many times before. Forsyth just didn’t understand that if he got up too early, he wouldn’t have anything to _do_ while he was waiting for it to be time to do whatever he had to, and also bed was good.

**Me:**  
Omg dude I know dw  
C u @ 11

**Fork:**  
_I’m looking forward to it!_

The freshly made plans gave Python a second wind, and he finished another of the ducks before he decided it was late enough and went to bed. He was looking forward to it as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless TAZ reference? You bet'cha. I had to figure out something to have Python make, and it's popular, and has woodworking/carpentry in it. I might put some other characters (likely mostly from other Fire Emblem games) in as cameos and extras where needed as well. We'll see. I have more than enough ideas...
> 
> Python's name in Forsyth's phone is the snake emoji.
> 
> I also drew the boys the other day to get a feel for them: https://twitter.com/Sploofson/status/874754363247521796  
> Forsyth especially is a tough one to pin down. I get the feeling that I keep making him too generically handsome, in a way? Python was easy, though. I had him down in no time. I think with the kind of person he is, and how impulsive I've made him, he'd definitely get piercings and probably a tattoo as well. It suits him.


	6. Woodworking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forsyth chuckled.  
> "So, a new project, huh? Did you get rejected again?" he said, his voice equally gentle as it was teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for making this short thing take so long. I had the full intention of making this chapter longer, but then it felt like it would have become too long, and I decided to just upload this bit for now.
> 
> I have already written more, so don't worry about this project being forgotten! I just got a bit distracted writing probably the idea that got me into storytelling to begin with, so I hope you'll forgive me!

Python was only five minutes late when he arrived at Forsyth's place. He'd woken up on time (10 am), calmly had a bowl of cereal and styled his hair. For his doing, that was practically being early. Nevertheless, Forsyth tutted and shook his head.

"You're still late."

Python opened the car door for him. " _Five_ minutes!" he protested.

"They add up." Forsyth took the passenger seat.

Python sat down behind the wheel with an exaggerated sigh. He reversed back onto the road after swearing at his car for beeping because he didn't have his seatbelt on. Forsyth chuckled.

"So, a new project, huh? Did you get rejected again?" he said, his voice equally gentle as it was teasing.

Python gave him a confused glance, squinted and shook his head. What the hell was Forsyth on about now? Those things had nothing to do with each other. Forsyth firmly angled Python's head back onto the road ahead.

"Was he straight?" Forsyth pushed.

"What the hell man? I just got bored after working on ducks for so long, why you think there's gotta be a guy?"

"Remember when you decided to make that miniature armory over summer?"

There was a broad relaxed smile on Forsyth's face Python wished he didn't have to see in flashes from the corner of his eyes, although his brows were knotted together as well.

Of course he remembered. He'd made a little display room, littered with all its trappings, from suits of armor, to all sorts of different weapons, as well as lighting fixtures, equipment racks, and seats for any potential mini-soldiers to use. He'd had a flash of inspiration, and worked through many nights to make sure it looked as good in his hands as it did in his head. It was probably the thing he was most proud of so far, although it also caused him a fair amount of headache. Carving all those tiny little pieces had been an absolute nightmare, though it did distract him pretty nicely from -

Python groaned.

"That was one time," he conceded, tapping the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead so he wouldn't have to see Forsyth's self-satisfied victory grin.

"That time you decided to replace all your furniture with stuff you made yourself?"

Barely a month before winter festivities that year, Python had delivered his things to a local charity shop. He'd moved out a year before, since his shop was finally getting a decent cash flow, and his parents had helped him get some cheap build-it-yourself kits for his new apartment. They were alright at the time, but over the course of the year, he'd started to realize he did _woodworking_ : he could make something way cooler all by himself and for cheaper, too. His boyfriend at the time said not to bother, so it was only when they broke up and the bed felt like it belonged to a stranger -

He grit his teeth. He tried to remember if there were other times; what happened after that one guy in high school? Oh, right, that's when he first threw himself into woodworking to begin with. The one after was when he impulsively shaved the sides of his hair off, and he was lucky it came into fashion soon after. And he wasn't out in middle school, not after how that boy - he couldn't even remember his name now - rejected not just him, but everything about him, and he ran off to make the biggest tree house ever so he never had to come down.

And of course Forsyth would have known about all of those except the first. No wonder.

"Shit," he mumbled.

Forsyth put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find they were sat in the mall parking lot. He'd somehow managed to drive and park on autopilot, fortunately without rear-ending anyone. Forsyth had already unbuckled, since they were no longer moving, and seemed to be waiting for him to come back to himself.

"Am I that obvious?" he asked Forsyth, turning his head towards his friend but staring past him.

Forsyth shrugged. "I guess I just know you that well. I think people in high school just thought you were impulsive."

Well, he _was_.

Python shook his head and unbuckled himself, stepping out of the car with lead feet. He'd thought he had a pretty good grasp on his self-control, but now he wasn't so sure. At least if Forsyth had noticed this much, he _must_ have been aware of how Python felt about him, so if he hadn't said anything, there had to be a good reason for it. He was only vaguely aware of Forsyth's shoes landing on the asphalt on the other side of the car.

"So," Forsyth said, and Python's thoughts returned to the here and now. "Do you want to tell me about this guy?"

There wasn't a guy, though. He hadn't met anyone new recently, and he definitely hadn't tried to hook up with anyone.

...Unless the phone sex guy counted.

Python's hand flew to his face and he groaned again. "Not much to say." His cheeks felt hot and he hadn't wanted to be swallowed up by the world's most precise sinkhole this much since that night.

Forsyth's hand landed on his shoulder again. "There must be, if he has this effect on you. At least tell me what he looks like."

Python gave a dry chuckle. "Would if I could, man. Never seen him. Just talked to him on the phone." He shrugged. "Guy probably doesn't give a rat's ass about me. He was just talking to me 'cause of his job." He didn't want to lie to his best friend, even if he didn't exactly want to tell the truth either. He decided that just leaving a few key things out would be a fine compromise. "Do you ever get things like that with customers at your job?"

Forsyth frowned thoughtfully. It was too vague a question, so he had to consider the angles. He brought the side of his index finger up to his lips and chewed on it as he thought, which Python found unfairly attractive.

"We _are_ briefed on what happens when a client gets a ...crush on us, yes," he said, making small, sharp gestures with his hands. "It's bound to happen; we are supposed to talk to them in a friendly and encouraging way, which can be easy to misinterpret. But of course, we're also told to keep a certain distance, and to de-escalate a situation should it come to it. As for a phone operator having or returning a crush on a client - I suppose it must happen, but I haven't heard of it. It is a job, after all, and," he chuckled into his fist, "it's hardly magical on our end of the phone."

Python hummed. He imagined having to sit there listening to some crabby old bat demanding he fix or refund her toaster or whatever it was, and even in the purely imaginary scenario, he wanted to die. He'd never be able to endure that kind of treatment, never mind being as chipper as he knew Forsyth could be.

He scuffed his shoe on the asphalt and nudged Forsyth. "So yeah, no chance. Come on, shop won't be open forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Both Python and Forsyth know of each other they're gay as hell, just not for each other. Python's dated before. He's not so optimistic that he'll wait for Forsyth forever, after all, and he does get crushes on other guys. Unfortunately, for various reasons (some of them being the cliché of true love of course), it's just never worked out yet. Forsyth is the kind of dude who would wait for the one to be knight in shining armor to, though, so I think that even though he's open enough about his preferences and affections, he hasn't had a boyfriend yet. Another thing that shows how similar yet opposite they are.
> 
> The [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11305167) that's been distracting me from working on this is now complete, and if you're a fan of Tales of Symphonia, with a soft spot for Mithos especially, I heartily recommend that you check it out!


	7. Like a Comedy Duo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forsyth's blush intensified. He did always think of himself as the serious half, and being called out on doing something silly was hard enough on him without a supposedly impartial observer considering him funny.

They decided to go scope out some wood first, because Forsyth was making Python stock up on actual food and ingredients, and there was no way they were going to lug all that around in the hardware store.

Python leisurely strolled towards the place in the back where they kept the wood, Forsyth easily keeping pace beside him. He waved lazily to a member of staff he'd seen on earlier trips, and she flushed and waved back.

"You have a new project? I didn't think you were here that long ago..." she asked casually.

They made small talk whenever he showed up. Apparently he looked a little like her boyfriend, something she blurted out when she first helped him find something, which made it easier for her to make conversation. It was a little flattering, even though she was definitely too young and the wrong gender for him, a little weird, but mostly convenient, since it meant he didn't have to look for anyone to help him out when he couldn't find something.

He hummed to acknowledge her. "Yeah,  _ apparently _ it's what I do when I get shot down."

Her eyes glazed over in thought like she was remembering something for a moment, then she nodded. So even the shop girl had noticed.

"So, yeah, I'm looking for something flexible today. At least six foot. Not  _ too _ flexible, but it's gotta have give."

Forsyth let out an audible gasp and craned his head towards Python. "Are you making a bow?"

"What are you, twelve?" Python chuckled. "Who's always saying we're grown men now? Yeah, I figured I may as well."

The shop girl's eyes lit up as well and she lead the men to racks with long planks and poles. "That's so cool," she sighed wistfully as she walked. "I do archery but I never thought of making my own... If it's not too much trouble, could I ask you...?"

Python shrugged. "You know it's not gonna be free, right?" She seemed reasonable, but she never asked for anything before, and you never knew.

She nodded rapidly. "Of course! Just, um, give me a quote, and I'll..."

Python hummed to cut her off. He understood, and if she had the idea he didn't, she'd go on forever. If she said anything else, he wasn't paying attention, grabbing an oak plank instead. He checked it for defaults as usual, since you never knew if someone didn't happen to overlook something on the long way from the sawmill. It was about an inch thick, which was perfect, and as wide as his hand. He whistled. If it bent well, he could wish for nothing more.

"You should probably get two, in case one of them doesn't go so well," Forsyth piped up, disturbing him from his thoughts.

Python shoved him. "Thanks, Captain Obvious," he grumbled as he grabbed another plank of similar dimensions. "Don't know what I'd do without you here."

The shop girl giggled.

Python browsed around the timber aisle a little longer, his arm around the planks of wood taller than he was as he hovered like a nervous boyfriend.

"It's so fibrous... I don't get how you can stand working with this," Forsyth mumbled, and as Python looked back, he saw his friend stroking a birch beam and shuddering.

A small chuckle escaped Python's lips. He'd never understood Forsyth's hatred for coarse textures much. They weren't the nicest to touch, but shivering was a little much. Then again, there were an infinite number of things Forsyth loudly proclaimed he didn't understand about him either.

"Don't touch it then, numbskull."

Forsyth retracted his hand like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, a faint blush high on his cheeks. Beside them, the shop girl burst into giggles.

"You two are like a comedy duo," she gasped out, thoroughly in the throes of laughter.

Forsyth's blush intensified. He did always think of himself as the serious half, and being called out on doing something silly was hard enough on him without a supposedly impartial observer considering him funny. He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead in one smooth movement that always agitated the butterflies in Python's stomach. He probably wasn't even aware of how ridiculously attractive that little habit was.

"Yes. Well. Python, were you planning on buying anything else?" Forsyth said haltingly, eager to change the conversation.

"Oh." Python snapped back to reality, suddenly aware that he was absentmindedly fondling some blocks, purely out of habit because he already had a good box full of wood exactly like it to make his ducks out of. "Uh, no, I guess not."

"Then you should probably take those up to the counter. I'm not about to let you forget about groceries." Forsyth had fallen back into his mom friend role, wearing it with a much greater degree of comfort than that of funnyman.

The shop girl bounced ahead of them and rang them up in short order, making light conversation about the meals Python might make, what sort of foods he liked and gave a few recommendations, before sending the boys on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys sorry again for the short chapter. I've got a con coming up soon, and I really need to finish my merch, so that's taking precedence over writing right now. Good news for fans of Persona 5 and the Legend of Zelda, though! I'll have whatever charms, sticker sheets and whatever else I have left after the con available on my Storenvy. I'm also producing an original illustrated fairytale. It's only a small con but hey, if anyone happens to be going to Exmouth ComicCon this september, look for Art by Chetan.
> 
> The shop girl is Neimi from Sacred Stones, because I can reference other Fire Emblem games, and I will. Expect more in the future as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Python is really, really gay.  
> Just a short chapter to get things started. The next chapter is longer. I think they might all be fairly short? I'm not separating them in the document I'm working in, just ending a chapter when it feels right.


End file.
